tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-342093712018-03-05T20:44:27.281-05:00Mantis in a TeacupWhere the inscrutable breaks the confines of polite societyJonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03550194083963398889noreply@blogger.comBlogger11125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34209371.post-64471048860085299382007-04-19T13:48:00.000-05:002007-04-23T12:18:59.749-05:00Apidea<a href="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v606/joni999/bee1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v606/joni999/bee1.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br /><br /><strong>The Bees are Dying</strong><br /><br />They hang as jeweled ornaments on <br />branches with legs clenched in<br />tiny fists of unexpected cold.<br />The bees are dying.<br /><br />I pluck a stem and cup it in my<br />shaking hands. As God did for man,<br />I breathe myself across him.<br />Life pulses anew.<br /><br />His segments flex, legs uncurl.<br />I can not save him, I know this.<br />For as a bee-God, I am limited.<br />Only a magician.<br /><br />Or perhaps my intrusion is more<br />Old Testament treachery. How has <br />this bee sinned to be judged to die <br />only to die again?<br /><br />I make a bed in tall grass for him<br />in the hopes that the earth's womb <br />can preserve what I can not. <br />This too is fruitless.<br /><br />The bees are dying. I see them<br />decorate this field, giving the gift<br />of beauty with their very lives.<br />For only their God to see.<br /><br /><em>Joni<br />4/19/07</em>Jonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03550194083963398889noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34209371.post-91824323425460889752007-03-15T07:09:00.000-05:002007-03-16T06:31:00.290-05:00And....<a href="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v606/joni999/tree.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v606/joni999/tree.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br /><strong>And.....</strong><br /> <br />It is within your motion, where your <br />beauty lies. Static does not suit you.<br />Your frenzied dance opens my heart.<br />My wind is borne blind on the other side of you.<br /> <br />And I feel.<br /> <br />I call your name with birdsong voice.<br />Your back remains mine with your<br />wolfing hips moving skyward.<br />My trees are held breathless in your landscape.<br /> <br />And I know.<br /> <br />You settle deep within my marrowed skin.<br />A joining of purest connection<br />in grazing circles of florid repose,<br />my stars run sunlit through your madrigal hair.<br /> <br />And I love.<br /> <br /><em>Joni<br />3/13/07<br /><br />Art Credit: Tree Deva by Mia Friedrich</em>Jonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03550194083963398889noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34209371.post-60723013559649648262007-01-15T07:22:00.000-05:002007-01-15T08:38:12.638-05:00Winter's Ice<a href="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v606/joni999/snow.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v606/joni999/snow.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br /><br /><strong>One Last Word</strong> <br /><br />Within her heart is snow fall. <br />Inch by inch covering the scorched place <br />where the dream took light, blazed and died <br />its sputtering ashen death. <br /><br />Silence befalls this place. <br />Only the cold hiss of ice crystals <br />landing en masse like cruise ship <br />tourists overtaking the shore. <br /><br />Surely they’ve never been here before. <br />They peruse the shops looking for perfect gifts. <br />The conch shell he’d brought from Florida? <br />The beret from Paris? The poetry? <br /><br />No, they are agitated in their cold <br />obnoxious way. They want service. <br />They want a cold drink by the pool. <br />They wonder why they came here at all. <br /><br />Still they settle into their icy silence <br />awaiting the only other sound they will ever make. <br />The crunch of a new traveler’s footsteps into her heart. <br />Hoping to conjure the arctic explorer’s of tomorrow<br /> <br />to say one last word. <br /><br /><em>Joni<br />11/13/05 </em>Jonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03550194083963398889noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34209371.post-79463940564662150572007-01-08T22:41:00.000-05:002007-01-09T21:15:42.195-05:00A Touchstone<a href="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v606/joni999/jfkterm2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v606/joni999/jfkterm2.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br /><br /><strong>The Last Place I Felt Your Smile</strong><br /><br />I visit it again. The stage of your renown<br />and the poetry pushes against the leaden<br />edges of my heart. This is the place of my father.<br />A holy relic of a youth I barely remember.<br />A building abandoned long ago, like the<br />pristine child’s love I held you in. <br /><br />I remember basking in the glow of your <br />accomplishments here. A bit part, with no lines,<br />but great satisfaction that I was yours.<br />My words came later, but only shouted in<br />response to the vine that gripped us in the hush<br />and shame of fallen warriors and heroes.<br /><br />I didn’t make the choices that led from this place,<br />but I grew within them like a cold estranged wife.<br />Now I’ve made my own place in a new world.<br />And as I stand in the last place I felt your smile, I <br />weep that I lost our love when I was so very young,<br />and I realize that everyday I've missed the man you were. <br /><br /><em>Joni<br />1/8/07</em>Jonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03550194083963398889noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34209371.post-77022785978383517042006-12-07T12:04:00.000-05:002006-12-08T21:23:08.071-05:00Nothing But This<strong>﻿For Laurence</strong><br /><br />You leave us here.<br />We all knew you were<br />going. Your absence <br />is no surprise.<br />Yet it is. <br /><br />Somewhere between <br />mind and heart is a <br />veil of self-deceit, a <br />lie of self mastery. This<br />day, as yesterday, <br />in unending march.<br /><br />We should celebrate<br />your freedom from a <br />broken body. Yet<br />we will mourn the <br />loss of your light.<br />A light that made<br />ours a bit brighter.<br /><br />See all the beauty<br />you never knew you<br />were. Swim within <br />the shine of the <br />Universe. Revel in <br />the love that we send<br />between our tears. <br /><br />For now you know <br />what was always <br />yours.<br /><br /><em>Joni<br />12/7/06</em>Jonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03550194083963398889noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34209371.post-6076202692624775152006-11-14T17:07:00.000-05:002006-11-14T16:44:45.040-05:00My Only Religion﻿<br /><br /><strong>At the Altar of One</strong><br /><br />I will worship at the altar of all that you are <br />with the reckless abandon of a woman's <br />soul eclipsed and enlightened by yours.<br />My light, dimmed without your light,<br />Your light, shadowed without my light.<br />In swirling Oneness, we are beauty defined.<br />I am yours, beloved. <br />I am yours.<br /><br /><em>Joni<br />11/14/06</em>Jonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03550194083963398889noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34209371.post-1529747068746162282006-11-05T17:32:00.000-05:002006-11-05T18:08:28.436-05:00Fade to Green<a href="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v606/joni999/vietnamview-1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v606/joni999/vietnamview-1.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br /><strong>Ten Thousand Shades of Green</strong><br /><br />Ten thousand shades of green <br />ooze forth in shimmering stillness<br />cooling my overheated eyes,<br />while Buddha’s children <br />sell chocolates and ask <br />to be photographed.<br />The con made sweeter <br />by the presence of God.<br /><br /><em>Concrete Blonde</em> fills the <br />potholes we dodge with <br />careening trucks and <br />comforts moved by bicycle<br />to reach your sea.<br /><br />Darkness enthralls your <br />river’s mouth where<br />ghosts whisper of the <br />wounds you lick in silence<br />and broken men wait by<br />the shore for redemption.<br /><br />Rooftop luxuries rise<br />from the ashes of soldiers<br />gone mad, like sundae cherries<br />and women inviting from<br />the center of their ripeness.<br /><br />In the end it’s your voice<br />of kindness that surrenders<br />my soul to all that you are and<br />has me forsaking all colors,<br />hues both light and dark, for<br />ten thousand shades of green.<br /><br /><em>Joni<br />11/4/06</em>Jonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03550194083963398889noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34209371.post-8680060203224878832006-10-30T07:54:00.000-05:002006-10-30T10:27:07.873-05:00The Most Beautiful ArtThe most beautiful art, it seems to me, comes from pain. I certainly do my best writing when I am unhappy. I know this is true for many. I wonder why it is harder to write from joy? I've never been able to do it well. Everything I write from joy sounds trite and cheesy. Some might say <em>everything</em> I write sounds trite and cheesy, but I think they'd be wrong about that. LOL <br /><br />Of course <em>Ode to Joy</em> is in direct opposition to what I wrote above. Maybe it is just the people like myself - rather inexperienced artists - find pain easier to express artistically. In the end, all I know is what works for me.<br /><br /><a href="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v606/joni999/banff187.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v606/joni999/banff187.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br /><strong>Release</strong> <br /><br />I sit on stone beside the river. <br />Leaves of Willow and Birch surround. <br />A death shroud most fitting. <br /><br />Anguish crashes against stone <br />like the river’s din. <br />Relentless, neither yielding <br /><br />I come for healing, unsure if even <em>this</em> place <br />is strong enough for the task. I examine the <br />shards of a shattered life, seeking a lesson. <br /><br />Here, the familial love withdrawn in shades of racism. <br />There, the job precariously balanced due to your position. <br />Another, my wild nature tamed by your children, half grown. <br />I sacrificed all of importance and laid myself bleeding and empty <br />in supplication at your feet to acquire a gem far more precious: <br />Us. <br /><br />The rush of the river drowns the sounds of a life crushed <br />to hear your whispers. The relentless sound as the glass <br />settles into its heap beside me. Echoed mercilessly through <br />the dead telephone line, the last I heard from you. <br /><br />My breath gone, my tears gone, the clamor of water’s rush fills me anew. <br />Freedom comes in realization: none of the past can be reclaimed. <br />I let the river sweep the glass downstream I want no part of it. <br />Instead I gather clay. <br />My life starts here. <br /><br /><em>Joni<br />November 4, 2004</em>Jonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03550194083963398889noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34209371.post-31348289291180131512006-10-16T07:59:00.000-05:002006-11-10T14:34:41.385-05:00AlexI have a friend named Alex that I met this past May. The moment we met there was a spark of recognition, of kindred, that was unmistakeable even upon the first words from his mouth. We have spent only a few hours in each other's presence, and yet I've found there is a commonality between us that is <em>uncommon</em>. I have my dear friend Joseph to thank for our introduction. My friendship with Joseph is even more uncommon and uncanny, but I won't go into that now.<br /><br />As I knew I would in that first moment, I have since found much in common with Alex and we have shared some wonderful discussions regarding some very deeply held beliefs and ideas regarding the world and ourselves. I bring all this up about him today, because it was he that I thought of when the first frayed thread of this poem came through. At the time I didn't even recognize there was a poem in it. Only after the second thread came through, did I realize this was a poem and I knew that it was for Alex. So, Alex, this poem is for you. <br /><br /><a href="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v606/joni999/I-1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px;" src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v606/joni999/I-1.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br /><strong>Women I’ve Known</strong><br /><em>For Alex</em><br /><br />She stands by a bridge abutment<br />drinking in sunlight on the road <br />to Las Vegas. I left her there, so <br />she might forever live on the edge <br />of adventure. She is anticipation.<br /><br />Another eternally ferries a stormy <br />sea hoping the clinging salt will<br />bridge impossible love. I left her<br />there to find her love and lover.<br />She is full of pain and torment.<br /><br />A third sits infused in pine straw<br />scent from the forest around her,<br />learning of her own divinity for <br />the first time this life. I left her <br />there to become her own perfection.<br /><br />The last is walking through a foreign <br />land. Well beyond her own comfort. <br />I left her there for distant tongues <br />to drive further into a knowledge <br />of her mind, her spirit, her courage.<br /><br />I have sent many women out into the world.<br />Pieces of myself, frozen in ambered time.<br />It seems in these later years I gather them<br />again like buoys through my uncharted course, <br />so they might remind me of who I really am.<br /><br /><em>Joni<br />10/14/06</em>Jonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03550194083963398889noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34209371.post-62551418582731353062006-09-22T18:58:00.000-05:002006-11-06T20:59:14.773-05:00A Good DayI wasn't going to write today....but sometimes life has other plans. Today I took the time to walk back from a meeting to my office, and that is where the fun came in.<br /><br />I live in a small city, but I grew up in New York. Not NY city itself - but I spent enough time there to have some real impressions and formative experiences there. Today as I walked back, I was reminded of the film <i>My Dinner with Andre</i>. There are many who will poo-poo this film and say what crap it was - sorry you feel that way, but I was reminded of the last scene in the film. In this scene Wally is walking home to his apartment down streets he's walked down his whole life, and he is suddenly struck by all the memories he holds of these places that he constantly overlooks during his daily life.<br /><br />Today as I walked, I was not reminded of my history on <i>these</i> streets, but of my history in New York. The homeless people I passed, the druggies rocking out when a car with a loud stereo went by, the lost woman wearing a set of gold that would have Mr. T. drooling looking for the Sheriff's Department, the closeness of the skyscrapers nuzzling me down the street - all of it felt familiar on a very visceral level. It all felt like home.<br /><br />Then I heard something.......<br /><br /><i> Cockadoodle doooooooo</i><br /><br />I thought "What the......."<br /><br /><i> Cockadoodle doooooooo</i><br /><br />it was getting closer.<br /><br /><i> Cockadoodle doooooooo</i><br /><br />An SUV went past and was obviously the source of this VERY loud rooster. I smiled. and the SUV stopped at a light. The rooster crowed several more times and was replaced by....<br /><br /><i>ribbet..ribbet</i><br /><br />I laughed out loud at the juxtaposition of one minute <i>being</i> in New York, and the next being on this small street in my small city with an extremely loud rooster and frog singing in an SUV driving by. As I laughed a small blonde head leaned forward to see if her mischief had found it's mark. It had most surely as I walked down the street laughing out loud without care as to who saw me.<br /><br />She and I locked eyes and smiled, the light turned green and she was gone.<br /><br />So my life is good, and I've been to New York and back. It's been a good day me hearties! Time for a beer.Jonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03550194083963398889noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34209371.post-41205871973955887622006-09-11T07:58:00.000-05:002006-09-11T08:28:20.054-05:00Why Mantis in a Teacup?<a href="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v606/joni999/praying_mantis.jpg"><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v606/joni999/praying_mantis.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I've always been fascinated by the Praying Mantis. They are majestic, deadly (to other insects), inscrutible, and seemingly spiritual in their prayerful gait. <br /><br />A few years ago I went to the china cabinet to get one of my "good cups" for my tea that day. I pulled out a cup and inside found a praying mantis.<br /><br />Dead.<br /><br />In my teacup.<br /><br />I have no idea how he got into the china cabinet (I don't <em>normally</em> have insects running around my home), and I feel bad that he died there. However, the minute I saw him, the juxtaposition of a creature so inscrutable held within the confines of a symbol of polite society (a china teacup from Japan decorated with small blue and pink flowers and a gold trim) was not lost on me. It was something I instantly related to. I knew in that moment at some point in my life I would name something "Mantis in a Teacup". This place, where I plan to post poetry and occasional commentary, seems to be as good a place as any to bear that name.</span></div>Jonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03550194083963398889noreply@blogger.com1